


Pink

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets about Dean, and sexual/gender identity development. Pre and Post canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skirt

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot (a lot) of feelings about the way Dean was when he was a kid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the first things John Winchester noticed about Mary was her clothes. Dean liked them, too.

One of the first things John Winchester noticed about Mary was her clothes.

An odd choice, perhaps, when the body within them was so beautiful, but he loved them; her long skirts, her delicate blouses, the paper-thin lace trim on her underwear, the flower-patterned cotton dresses she wore when she was pregnant with their sons. Even her socks seemed beautiful somehow, like the balls she rolled them into when she pulled them off at bedtime were somehow intrinsically linked to the workings of the universe, and the way they ended up in the corners of rooms could tell the future.

Dean liked them too. Remembered walking around under her round, swelled  stomach, not tall enough yet to draw level with it, but tall enough that the skirts of her long maternity tops skimmed the top of his head; that he could hug her legs, both arms not even stretching around her, and be hidden from view as she laughed at him.

He remembers how soft they were – her thick-knit sweaters in the winter, her high-heeled shoes when she and John – rare though it was – found a weekend to go out alone together, and leave Dean with a sitter.

After she died, he thought nothing of it existed anymore.  Mom was gone – and with her the house,  her smell, the way she laughed. His Dad’s smile.

He found them when he was six.

A sports bag, with one long zip, black. Nothing special. It was like all the other bags that his Dad carried from motel room to motel room with them; he’d left them alone, told Dean what he usually did – behave, don’t leave the room, _look after Sammy._

He was looking for something to do, bored, Sam asleep and dreaming, Dean checking on him every few seconds, sticking his hand into the carry-seat to brush back his hair from his forehead, to ease the creases of worry on the baby’s soft, smooth brow.

He knew it before he opened it fully; the smell came drifting out, the unmistakeable, unnameable scent of his mother, warm and safe and lovely. He pulled the things out; blouses, shirts and bras, a pair of earrings, a long, stretchy pair of pantyhose that was loose in his fingers, that fell out of his hands. A long, flowered skirt that was longer than him, from head to toe, its pleats and folds tentlike in his tiny, hesitant hands.

He pulled it over his head to smell her better. The waist of it settled around his shoulders, fabric pooling beneath him on the floor. He caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room, a flash of blue and green and yellow, of the tiny petaled flowers dotting the skirt, the way it hung over his body, like robes, or  a cape. He put his hand in the bag and found her wedding-ring, her necklaces, in one long, tangled string.

He pulled the necklaces over his head, the weight of them clattering together. He slipped the ring on his finger, though it sat like a halo, ill-fitting, so huge on him that it could almost fit around his wrist.

He stood looking at himself in the mirror, draped in his mother’s clothes, and brought the skirt to his face, breathed in deep. Pretended he was there, curled on her chest in the evening, sleeping against her skin when John was late home from the bar, and she looked worried and tired. He breathed into the skirt, whispered quietly, “It’s okay, Mom.”

And it was.

When John came home he was curled, asleep in the corner of the room, the skirt still wrapped around him, the floor scattered with jewellery, with her underwear and her jeans and her blouses. Around Dean’s feet were the high heeled shoes, her favourites, which had escaped the fire only because she’d left them by the front door before she died. One of Dean’s feet hung inside one, heel enclosed by it, toes in the air.

His dad’s rage was like a storm. It woke Sammy. It stayed in the motel room long after the yelling ended; long after Mary’s clothes all went away.

Dean tucked the wedding-ring into his back pocket quickly, his actions covered by the skirt, even as John tugged the skirt and the necklaces off his shoulders, spraying the room with beads as he pulled too roughly and one split.

He said sorry, after, and Dean nodded, rubbing at the silver ring in his pocket with his thumb, head down. “Don’t do this, Dean.” He said tiredly, when everything had dimmed; when Sam had stopped screaming, and was snuffling against John’s shoulder, instead. “This stuff, Dean. It’s not for little boys.”

“I know, Dad.”

“Well.” John looked at him strangely, eyes flitting to him as he brushed a hand through his hair. “Good.”

“I love you, Dad.” He tried hesitantly, and John looked exhausted.

“I love you too, Dean.” He said softly, but he was already turning away. 


	2. Ballet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a headcanon of mine, based around [this](http://redribbonrobot.tumblr.com/post/19770620392/this-post-reminded-me-that-i-doodled-this-over-the) and 7.16 "Out With The Old"

When he puts them on, they’re a perfect fit.

The lady in the store, standing at the counter, is watching him intently and he flushes red as he laces them up, crosses ribbon over ribbon, all the way up to the middle of his calf. He tries to tie them and realises he doesn’t really know how; not properly.

 He ties them in a bow, like he ties Sammy’s shoelaces, and hopes that it’s right. That the lady won’t laugh.

Dad’ll be back soon. The only reason he’s here at all is because Dad told him to stay put and he didn’t – it feels like worms are crawling around inside him, chewing him up, because he should have done what Dad said, should have kept himself planted to the ground, but he’d been hungry and bored and he’d gone wandering and then there, in the window, there they were. And he was alone with them.

He stands up, and the firm soles of the ballet shoes are strange beneath his feet; they’re curved, and shiny on the outside but white, and almost rough within. They bend when he walks, not like the old boots Dad lent him, three sizes too big but the last thing he’d ever dare complaining about.

The woman is still watching him but, just experimentally, he tries.

He rises onto tiptoe, wary, and the whisper of satin against the floor as he moves makes his face flush bright, bright red.

The lady at the counter calls over. “Are you alright, hon?”

He doesn’t turn to look at her; he’s looking at himself in the mirror, at his Dad’s old jacket and shirt, the jeans they picked up from a thrift store hanging belted around his hips, the shiny pink ballet shoes on the ends of his feet, laces wrapped around his skin.

He’s beautiful.

The lady calls again. “Hon?” she says, louder this time. He takes one last look at himself – at this strange boy with the girl’s shoes on – and then unties them as fast as he can, slips his feet into the huge boots he left behind, their weight a millstone. It makes it hard to walk out of the store. The woman calls after him.

“Honey, do you want them?” She says, looking a little lost. She holds them in her hand, their ribbons dangling. He looks back, just briefly.

“No. Sorry.” He stutters.

He runs away. 


	3. Panties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, alone by himself for a day or two, at nineteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been fascinated by the idea of Dean's encounter with Rhonda Hurley, beyond the joke. (also of note; Dean's feelings about what he does in this section, and what he does in previous sections, are intended to be separate) ♥

He got into the motel room and found it empty; heatless, left alone for hours whilst he was on the hunt. He shut the door behind him and staggered towards the bed, hands tacky with blood, taking care not to smear them on the bedsheets (dad would fucking _kill him_ if he lost them another deposit).

He sat back, exhausted – and slipped out of consciousness immediately, flopping back on the bed, eyes closed.

When he woke up, he had two missed calls; both from John. He rang back immediately, and the sigh on the other end made him wait to speak.

“Dean.” His dad’s voice, tired. In the background, the hum of the car’s engine. Still groggy from sleep, he pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead.

“Hey, Dad. You okay?”

His father grunted his assent on the other end. “Looks like we’re gonna be longer than we thought. Did you take care of things on your end?”

Dean nodded silently, then realised how stupid he was being. “Yeah, I’m done.”

“Okay.” Was all his Dad said in return; Dean knew better than to expect more. “Me and Sammy’ll stay here, tie things up. Might be a couple days; sit tight.”

“Okay.” He paused. “How’s Sam?”

He heard John’s smile; felt it; on the other end. “He’s great.” There was a murmur, Sam’s voice; Dean couldn’t decipher the words.

“Good. Cool.” He muttered, and then was at a loss for things to say. Apparently John was, too, because he coughed gently.

“Listen, Dean, I gotta go. I’m driving. I’ll see you soon. Make sure you check in.”

“Okay.” But before he even finished the word, the phone went dead.

Alone in the motel room – the lights off, covered in blood and mud and his own sweat – Dean breathed in, deep, and found himself at somewhat a loss. He’d been left alone before, sure, but never without something to _do –_ this thing had wrapped itself up so quickly that he literally had nothing to do, now, with his time, except what his dad said – sit tight. Check in.

He pushed himself up from the bed, legs still weak from exhaustion, and pulled himself into the bathroom to wash. At least he could take as long as he wanted in the shower, now; maybe there’d be a movie on later. The night was still young.

 ----

He sat on his bed with his legs stretched out, boots back on after the shower, hair still damp. There was nothing to look at on TV; he was too afraid to go for the pay-per-view pornos, terrified of what his Dad might say when they showed up on the bill, and with paying attention to his dick out of the question, he couldn’t really think of anything else to _do._ His first instinct was to call his Dad, check on Sammy, but it had only been a couple of hours, and even _he_ knew that was overbearing.

He kicked his heels against the mattress and flicked channels, settling eventually on some saccharine _Lifetime_ thing – something about cancer or women, or something. He had no idea. He tired of it quickly; the protagonist was in hospital when he finally rolled his eyes and rolled off the bed to his feet. He needed to get out of the room, needed to _go_ somewhere; digging in his pockets he found change, shrugged, and left the room to go for a soda. It was as good an excuse as any to be outside.

Crouched by the coke machine, cursing and fumbling for his dropped change, he heard a voice above him.

“Hey. You okay, hon?”

He looked up, and standing above him was a woman; dark skinned, her long hair hung in tight waves around her face, and she smiled at him carefully. She looked older than he was – twenty four, twenty five, maybe. She crouched beside him and helped him collect his coins, letting them pool between her cupped hands before she dropped them back into his own.

“Yeah.” He replied, a little surprised. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He stood up, and she moved with him – he could smell just the barest hint of whiskey on her breath when she spoke, but for the most part she looked _excited_ rather than drunk. She was dressed up; tight black top and black leather pants, heels that looked like they could kill. She pushed her hair back from her face as she spoke to him, looking down.

“You all on your own?” she asked him, and he shrugged; put one hand in the pocket of his jeans, used the other to push his change into the machine.

“Not really.” He replied, and concentrated on the machine instead of her, bending down to collect his can, embarrassed when he nearly dropped it, surprised by the cold. She laughed gently.

“Just – you’re cute.” She said, outright, and he looked at her and raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. She laughed again, louder. “You _are!_ Listen, me and my girlfriends are going dancing in a little while – I can’t lie, I saw you earlier, and you were – y’know. Cute.” She grinned, bobbing a little on the balls of her feet. Dean snorted. “Come with?”

“I’ll pass.” He said, and she shrugged easily, shifting from side-to-side.

“Okay. Sure.” She held her hand out to him, and he looked at it blankly. She lowered it again, that same eager, gently teasing smile on her face “What’s your name, kid?”

“Dean.” He answered, and she nodded.

“Okay, then, _Dean._ I’m Rhonda.” She reached her hand out again, brows raised, and he laughed despite himself, and shook it.

“Rhonda.” He said, and she nodded.

“Room 315.” She said, and grinned at him. “You’re 220, right? Floor below.” He looked at her carefully, and she shrugged. “Told you I’d seen you around.”

“That’s creepy.” He told her, and she smiled.

“Take it as a compliment. And you weren’t exactly inconspicuous, rolling in here in that _monster_ of a car.” She kept a hold of his hand for a moment more, then let him go. “Come tonight. C’mon. It’ll be fun.” She grinned – then stopped. “You’re old enough to drink, right?”

He looked at her sarcastically. “ _Yeah_.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “If you say so.” Disbelieving. She smiled at him. “See you later, then? Maybe?” She said hopefully - then she turned on her heel and left, taking long strides away from him across the parking lot, hands pushed into the tiny pockets of her jeans. Dean watched her go, appreciative, the coke can still freezing cold in his hand.

He got back to the motel room – its cold, listless floors, the slate-grey sheen of the dead TV, the way it was acutely cold in the night air. He busied himself for a while; put his clothes in his bag, pattered in and out of the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror and messing with his hair, _sure_ it was getting too long.

He sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the TV for a good twenty minutes.

Then he opened the minibar, got himself a miniature of Jack, downed it pretty fucking quickly, and cursed himself. “Fine.” He said, out loud, and looked down at himself – the jeans, the workboots, his Dad’s old jacket.

It would have to do. He grabbed his wallet – complete with fake I.D – and pushed his way out of the door, locking it behind him before he could change his mind.

\---

He surprised himself with how _nervous_ he was – standing outside Rhonda’s motel room, feet together, trying to look casual. Luckily, she opened the door and put him at ease – grinned, offered him a drink _only_ after seeing his ID (and even then she looked down at it, then up at him, with raised eyebrows).

“ _James_ Dean?” she asked him, mouth playing around a grin, and he snatched it back before she could make further comment.

Her friends were okay; tall, relatively attractive girls. There were three of them, and he couldn’t quite get a handle on their names; they were playing some kind of drinking game, sat on the bed, when he came in. They got into a pretty intense game of ‘I Never’ – the girls laughing riotously at Dean’s answers -  and after they called a cab to get into the city, Rhonda lingered against him in the doorway to the motel room, her friends already tottering downstairs. She looked up at him, and shook her head.

“ _Jesus,_ you’re cute.” She muttered, tugging at his shirt. He stepped out into the hallway and she fumbled with her room key, locking the door – they walked side by side, her friends calling for them to _hurry the fuck up,_ and she took his wrist in her hand to pull him along, not ungently. They got down the stairs and into the taxi; onto the road (the girls singing along to the radio, encouraging him to warble along, laughing when he did) – and up to the centre of town, to a small club with blue lights around its entrance, the doorman looking dubiously at Dean even as he let them all in.

He’d never actually done this before; his ID was for hunting, not _fun,_ and stumbling between the cool night air and the stuffy, smoky inside of the club, Dean felt something tighten in his chest – something like excitement, a strange, sordid little thrill he’d never really felt before. He was glad to be there, despite all his worrying; it felt weirdly, nerve-wrackingly _good._

“C’mon, kid.” Rhonda leaned up and muttered into his ear, her hand trailing over his hip, around his wrist. “I owe you a drink.”

He nodded, and followed her to the bar; her friends dissipated as soon as they entered; in the busy, humming place they disappeared, subsumed by the crowd, and though he didn’t feel _alone_ he felt _strange;_ like a normal boy, for once, maybe – shouldering his way through the crowd, weaving past people, too hot in his jacket, but unwilling to take it off.

They pushed through to the bar, Rhonda making short work of it, small as she was; she waved at the bartender – a thin, tall guy, whose gaze raked over Dean like a solid thing – and he grinned at her, made small talk with her that Dean couldn’t hear over the music.

Rhonda turned whilst he got their drinks and pulled Dean forward, against her, against the bar, her breasts pushing against his chest, legs twined with his. “How old are you? _Really?”_ she asked him. He frowned – but she held his gaze, hands trailing over his hips, his back.

“Nineteen.” He admitted carefully, and she nodded.

“Not so bad.” She shrugged, and stretched up to kiss him firmly, hand clenching on his hip.

After their drinks –two rum and cokes that Dean had no choice but to let her pay for – he was _definitely_ over his limit, stumbling through the club, dancing pressed against Rhonda and her friends, laughing. In the middle of a throng of people, bodies  close against him, head above the crowd, he kissed Rhonda in between laughing against her shoulder, hands roaming over her small, soft body. One of her friends nudged him in the elbow – shouted in his ear, “Sniff this and then kiss her, it’s _amazing!”_ and handed him a small brown bottle of what smelt like chemical oil.Rhonda pulled it gently out of his grip, still pressed hip-to-hip with him, a hand on the small of his back. She brought the bottle close to her face; closed her eyes, let go of his hip to cover her nose with a hand, and sniffed, hard – she reeled a little, grinning, and offered him the bottle. He looked at it carefully.

“You don’t have to!” She shouted up at him, grinning so wide he didn’t think she could _stop._ “It’s okay!” And that, really was what tore it for him; he took the tiny bottle in his hand and did exactly as she had, inhaling _hard,_ and it was like he had been submerged in iridescent water; chemical stink burned its way up his nose, but his eyes felt wider, the world glassy and strange. He felt a _jolt,_ a _tug_ of arousal in his gut, and gathered Rhonda in his arms to kiss her inaccurately, bending down, lips crashing against hers, the sensation more incredible than he expected – and for about a minute or so he was up there, kissing her hard, hands gripping at her waist as she laughed into his mouth between kisses.

“ _Jesus.”_ He murmured – and realised it was over, leaving nothing behind but an acrid tang on the back of his sinuses. Rhonda looked up at him, arms wrapped around his waist.

“We could go back.” She said, and he nodded.

Back in the motel room – his – she pulled him in as soon as he opened the door, tugging his jacket from his shoulders, hands going straight to his jeans. She pushed the door closed and pushed him against it, her hips round against his hands, grinning into his mouth, hair tickling the edges of his face. “You got - anything?” she murmured against him, and he nodded.

“Yeah, gimme a minute.” He broke away from her and stumbled across the silent room, drunker than he’d thought – she pulled off her shirt at the door and dropped it; went to work on her pants, stepping out of them, so when he turned back she was just in her bra and panties, and grinning. He stood for a minute, just looking at her – and she stepped forward quickly, rolled her eyes and laughed, manoeuvred him onto the bed and sat on his thighs, plucking the condom from between his fingers, ripping it open. He looked up from below her – reached his hands up to run them over her soft stomach, over her ribs, around her back to undo the clasp of her bra – she laughed gently, moving her hips against his crotch – his undone jeans, the fabric of his underwear, his cock – when he fumbled it, and when he finally got it undone she slipped it down his arms and threw it across the room. Her nipples were dark pink, and when she laughed above him her breasts wobbled, making him grin. She leaned over him to kiss him, giving him an open to cup her chest; to brush his thumbs over her nipples.

She sat up and pulled her panties down over her thighs, fingers hooked against the waistband. Threw them aside, too, and helped Dean to get out of his jeans, then aligned them so she was sitting on his cock, rocking her wet cunt against him, making him _gasp._ She laughed at him, and sat up on her knees – took hold of his cock and rolled the condom over it, pinching the end, fingers quick and careful. As soon as she was sure it was on properly she rose up above him; took his cock in her hand and guided him inside her, sighing gently as she sank down on him, hands on her own thighs.

He looked at her, unsure what to do with his hands – settled for laying them on her hips, so he could feel her move as she fucked herself on top of him, head thrown back, hand between her own legs to rub at her clit, huffing breath into the empty motel room. She breathed and he pushed his hips up, trying to move in time with her, sure he wouldn’t last long – not this drunk, not with Rhonda hot and moving fast above him, her lips parted, her hair splayed over her shoulders, breasts bobbing above him. She cried out as she rode him – reached for his hand, clumsy, and left it up to him to reach for her, to thread his fingers with hers – and her fingers stuttered on herself, rubbing faster, groaning and mumbling as she pushed herself up and down on his cock – “Oh, Dean, _baby –“_ laughing just a little, and he laughed, too, as her cries turned into breathy little sobs, as his own orgasm rose and crested within him, from somewhere in his gut, and he came inside her, into the condom, as she rode him. She slowed her pace – stroked herself with her hand, still, not quite there. As he tried to breathe beneath her she let his dick slip out of her and continued to bring herself off with her hand, groaning a little – rocking her hips onto her hand – and then tensing, thighs trembling, and breathing a long, low sigh.

She sat back on his thighs, breathing hard, and looked down at him – reached her hand for his face, fingers wet. “You are just -  like this – “ she shook her head. “wow.”

Drunk with this, coming down from the high, he grinned tiredly up at her. “Thanks.” He muttered, and she nodded and swung herself off him – collapsed in the space beside him, on the bed, and lifted her hand blindly  - brought it down to trail it over his stomach. He reached down himself and pulled the condom off – tied it up and threw it across the room, not caring where it fell.

“You mind if I stay?” She asked him – asking the ceiling, too. He turned his head to look at her.

“No, I’m cool.”

She sighed again, curled onto her side, and muttered, “Thanks.” And then she was, apparently, asleep.

Dean didn’t sleep much, but he rarely did. At any rate, the night had turned out better than he expected.

 -----

In the morning he woke up to the sound of the shower running. He rolled over onto his side, exhausted and a little hung over, the bitter plastic tang of whatever he’d sniffed last night still lingering around the back of his throat. Rhonda came out of the bathroom and then crawled back into bed with him, naked and damp. She ran her hand up his stomach.

“Morning.” She grinned, and kissed him. “That was fun, last night.” She muttered, feet tangled with his. “We should do that again.”

Dean groaned. “Not now. I think m’gonna puke.”

“Poor baby.” She kissed his cheek. “Hey, hon, I gotta go soon. Me and the girls are moving on.”

“What?” he murmured, and she pressed her nose against his cheek.

“Gotta get going, sweets.” She said, and slurred her full lips against his. “Leave you a present, if you do something for me.” She muttered, and he closed his eyes, and hummed.

“Depends.”

“If you put my panties on, you can keep them.” She murmured, and his eyes opened. He looked at her.

“Are you _serious?”_

She nodded, and kissed him gently, hand rubbing a slow circle on his chest. “Please?” She asked him, and he looked at her.

“You want me to put your panties on.” He asked her blankly, and she nodded again.

“I just think you’d look good.” She grinned against his mouth. “Please?”

“You’re _weird.”_ He murmured, but his belly jolted at the thought, and his confidence was lingering from the night before – from being alone, from the lack of _consequence_ here, with Rhonda, before his Dad and his brother returned. He shrugged, carefully noncommittal, against the sheets. “Whatever. If it’ll make you happy.”

She grinned and kissed him, quickly, again – then crawled out from beneath the covers, leaving him, slightly colder, in the bed before she returned. When she crawled back in with him she pressed her lips against his neck.

“Only if you want to, though.” She reminded him, and he shrugged again.

“Go for it.” He said. She kissed his collarbone, moved down his body, and lifted one of his legs. He was pliant in her hands, letting her do whatever she wanted – she splayed a hand against his hip as she pulled the panties over his feet. They were pink silk, a rasp against his skin, and as she pulled them up his thighs, his gut _twinged_ when he imagined what he must look like in them; they settled over his hips, a little too small, his dick an incongruous lump inside them, pressed firmly to his skin. Rhonda, below him, sighed appreciatively.

“You have _no idea.”_ She muttered, fingering at his hipbones. “You look amazing.” She breathed – she kissed his stomach. She sat in the vee of his legs, covers rucked around her, and slid her hands over his thighs. “Oh, Dean, _baby.”_ She muttered, voice strained. “You look _beautiful.”_

He laughed, embarrassed, and didn’t look down at himself. Rhonda crawled up his body and settled herself over him – dipped to kiss him.

“Thankyou.” She said, on a breath, and then clambered off him  - he sat up. She climbed off the bed, naked, and started going around the room, pulling her clothes on. She went braless, and zipped herself into her jeans, closing the zipper, careful over the triangle of black hair between her legs. He sat splay-legged on the bed, looking after her – feeling strangely lost. The waistband of her underwear dug lightly into his skin.

Rhonda’s eyes raked over him – she pulled her shirt on, straightened it; tucked her bra under her arm, and crossed the room to pull his head up to hers, and kiss him. Then she pulled back.

“You’re _nineteen.”_ She said, a hand still at the base of his skull. “Dean, are you okay?”

Funny thing was, Dean couldn’t remember the last time someone asked him that.

“Yeah. Fine.” He replied. She nodded.

“Okay.” She shifted, bare-footed, on the carpet. “Hold on.” She said softly – she went into the bathroom and came out with a reel of toilet paper wound around her hand, then went to the dresser, were a motel-brand pen lay. She grabbed it, and scribbled quickly on the toilet paper, stopping every now and then to squiggle on it, and get the pen working again. When she was done she came back over, and pressed the toilet paper into his hand. “Call me if you’re – anything. Okay?” She grinned. “Call me if you wanna do this again, too.” She fit her hand to the side of his face, and kissed him. Then she pulled back. “Okay. I _really_ have to go.” She laughed, and went across the room, to the door – she jangled the doorknob, finally got it open, then looked back. Her gaze was heavier. “Look after yourself, okay?” She told him, and Dean nodded, dumb.

“’Course. You, uh – you too.”

She nodded, and smiled gently at him – slipped out the door, and then she was gone.

Dean, on the bed, in women’s underwear, clutched the phone number in his hand. Then he let it drop against the mattress, and pushed himself up– he trod across the room and ducked into the bathroom. He played games with the mirror for a bit, avoiding its gaze, and then took a chance, and looked at himself. Really _looked._

It was pretty much how he imagined – he looked tired, hungover, and the panties were stretched across his hips, pressed snug to his dick, _ridiculously_ pink. He flushed; a thrill went through him, to look at himself – something low, a twist in his gut. He swallowed.

He pulled the panties down his legs – slipped out of them, then crumpled them into a ball, and dropped them on the bathroom floor. He turned the shower on, waiting for the water to get warm – then picked up Rhonda’s underwear again, and took them through into the bedroom. He tucked them into his bag, in the corner, where no one would find them.

He went into the bathroom and turned off the shower – ran a bath for himself, instead. In the other room, his phone vibrated, demanding, but he ignored it.

When the bath was full he sank into the clean water, every bit of him mildly sick. He ached – but it was good. It was _strange._

He wished, for the first time in his life, that he could be alone a little longer; get to grips with himself a little more; but he knew it wasn’t to be. John and Sammy would be back in a couple of hours, no doubt, and Dean would spend that time erasing any evidence of Rhonda, of the night before.

He sank into the water – pushed his head underneath it, felt himself submerged, and sighed bubbles up towards the surface.

It was strange, but not unlikeable, to be alone. He missed Sammy – worried for him – but he wondered, too, when he’d get another chance like this to only be _himself._


End file.
